Merchants of War

by Rick Partlow

  “Roach,” he called. “Do you need help?”

  “What do you think?” The reply was harsh, sarcastic. She wasn’t in a good mood, and he didn’t blame her. “The Gomer is down and I’m fine. What’s our next move?”

  “Meet me back where I left Patty,” he said grimly. “Bring Ramirez.”

  This, he was beginning to realize, would be the hard part.

  Fourteen

  The melancholy glint of false dawn teased at the eastern horizon by the time they made it back to Patty. He was right where they’d left him.

  Nate had half hoped the man might somehow have gotten free of the cockpit and ran, that he wouldn’t ever see him again, wouldn’t be forced to make the decision he was about to make. But Patty was still slumped in his seat, surrendered to the inevitable. Was he just stupid and lazy, Nate wondered, or did he feel so guilty he hadn’t even tried?

  Nate shut down his Hellfire slowly, methodically, absorbing himself in the routine and trying not to think. He noted every reading, marking it down on his log as if he were on a training run. Winchester on missiles, 6.5mm machine gun and 40mm cannon ammunition. Twenty-three rounds of 20mm remaining. Various minor damage, only pressing matter was a hip actuator close to failing. He’d have to get that looked at.

  Good thing they didn’t bring any more Tagans. We’d have been fucked.

  Then there were no more excuses and no time left to waste. He sighed deeply and yanked loose his seat harness, pulling off his helmet and hanging it from the armrest of his chair. The lower hatch opened with the kick of a lever and he slowly and carefully climbed downward out of the Hellfire, toeing the retractable stepladder down rather than dropping the last two meters. There was no hurry.

  Ramirez and Roach were already out of their mechs, waiting for him with obvious impatience.

  They’re young. Young people are always impatient, even for the bad times. Get them over with and get past them, they figure. They don’t understand how the bad times shape you, change you in ways you don’t want to change. If they knew, they wouldn’t rush into them.

  Nate pulled his Glock from its chest holster and nodded to Ramirez.

  “Get him out.”

  Ramirez made a face, as if he wanted to complain about still being the Mule, having to do the shit jobs. Nate checked the load on his 9mm and didn’t bother to look at Ramirez.

  “Watch him, Roach,” he said. “Don’t let him try to grab Ramirez.”

  Rachel Mata slid a broad-bladed knife from her belt and snarled an acknowledgement.

  “I hope the fucker resists.”

  Patty might have been a dumb-assed hillbilly, but he was smarter than that. Once Ramirez unlocked his hatch and pulled it open, Patty climbed down slowly and without making any sudden moves.

  “Why the fuck would you do it?” Ramirez demanded.

  “Forget it,” Nate snapped before Patty could even think about replying. “I already know why he did it. That’s not the question. The question is, what are we going to do about him?”

  “We could turn him over to the Department of Defense liaison,” Ramirez suggested, the trusting naiveté in his expression almost enough to make Nate laugh. “They could get him to the CIA, maybe.”

  Patty’s head came up at that, eyes going to Nate almost as if he was curious if the man would shove the decision upstairs, avoid the responsibility.

  “DoD policy,” Nate said, “is that every military contractor handles their own discipline. They don’t have the people or the time to be prosecuting all the shitbags who pass through the training.”

  “But this is treason, Nate,” Roach objected, eyes widening. “He sold us out to the enemy. Surely they’d want to…”

  “It’s my call, Rachel.” His voice was flat, a gavel on a bench. “I’m the one who’s responsible for every one of you and everything you do while you’re under contract with me.”

  “What are you going to do?” Patty asked. He hadn’t spoken till now, just stood watching in stoic silence, as if he’d accepted his fate. Even this question wasn’t plaintive or fearful, just curious.

  Nate stared at him, wondering if he kept staring long enough, whether the truth might leap out at him and save him from what he knew he had to do.

  “Roach, Mule,” he said, eyes still locked on Patty’s, “get back in your mechs and head back to base.”

  “What?” Ramirez blurted. “Why?”

  “Because I fucking said so.”

  “Nate, you don’t have to do this alone,” Roach said, taking a step toward him.

  “Yes, I do,” he interrupted, stopping her advance with an upraised palm. “Get back in your Hellfire and get out of here now. That’s an order.”

  She stood her ground, eyes boring into him. He could feel them, but he refused to meet them. Finally, she cursed and turned away, sliding her knife back into its sheath.

  “Fuck you, man,” she muttered as she pulled herself back up into her mech. Nate wasn’t sure if the words were aimed at him or Patty, or maybe both.

  He didn’t say another word until after he heard the Hellfires’ turbines wailing to life, felt the hot blast of their thrusters as they lifted away. The Glock had been held at low ready, but now he raised it to aim directly at Patty’s chest.

  “You really gonna do it, man?” Patty asked him. It was almost a dare. “You really going to kill me?”

  “It feels like I kill people every day,” Nate said, almost whispering, not even sure if he was talking to Patty. He raised his voice to make sure the other man heard him. “I just killed two men a few minutes ago. Your Russian buddies. Does that make you sad?”

  “Whoever won, I was going to wind up dead. These guys don’t put up with people failing.” Patty squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if it was all finally catching up to him. “Can you try to make sure they don’t hurt my mom?”

  Fuck.

  “Fuck,” he repeated aloud, lowering the gun from Patty’s chest almost involuntarily before raising it back up again. He snarled, left hand balling into a fist, feeling like punching the other man. “Goddammit, Patty, why’d you have to do this? Why’d you put me in this fucking position?”

  “I’m sorry, Nate.” And it seemed as if he really was. There was genuine pain on his long, country face. “They get you a little at a time and by the time you figure out what’s really going on, it’s too late and there’s no way out.”

  “Shit.” Nate closed his eyes and let the gun fall to his side. “Shit, Patty, I can’t do it. Just go, man.”

  He opened his eyes again and saw horror on Patty’s face, the man’s eyes wide and staring at something behind him. Nate spun, bringing the Glock up, but something sharp and burning stabbed into his neck and suddenly he was on the ground, every muscle in his body seizing. Consciousness narrowed to a black-rimmed tunnel and he only noticed the electric current had ceased when he felt a hand prying the gun from his quivering hand.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, Geoffrey.”

  The voice was the same one he’d heard on the radio earlier, smooth, husky, very female. She was tall, impossibly tall, or maybe that was just him lying flat on the ground with her towering above him. Her hair was blond and her face…familiar.

  She was the same woman he’d seen with Patty in the Fry.

  “You let them sniff you out,” the woman accused. “Treachery, I would expect. You’re a traitor, after all. Incompetence is unforgivable.”

  There was a gunshot, two, the rattle of brass cartridge casings clattering to the pavement, then the meaty thump of a body following them down. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t force himself to move, to turn over and look.

  Was the girl alone? No, he could hear footsteps, see the pant legs of others, men, large men dressed roughly in combat boots and tactical pants.

  “Get him up.”

  A different voice. Male. Rough, as if the vocal cords had been damaged at some point. And yet…also familiar, somehow.

  “I have been waiting a long time fo
r this moment, Nathan. It has cost me much in lives and treasure, but I know it’s going to be worth it.”

  Hands grasped his arms and yanked him up none too gently, and he could see the man attached to them were not the gentle sort. Scarred, muscular, with the cold, hardened eyes of experienced killers. He didn’t try to fight them, sensing it would cost him unnecessary pain and not accomplish a damned thing. One of them still held the taser they’d used on him and he cursed in sudden pain as he felt someone yank the darts from the back of his neck.

  The man who’d spoken was dressed in surprisingly casual clothes, jeans and a flannel shirt. He was taller than Nate, with the face of someone who’d been chubby but lost weight perforce from illness or deprivation. His hair was long and coarse, pulled into a salt-and-pepper ponytail and the face…

  It was older than he remembered, lined and creased and weathered, but he did remember it.

  “Bob,” Nate hissed, barely able to find the breath to speak. “But…you’re dead.”

  “Indeed, I am,” Robert Franklin, longtime friend of Nate’s Prime, inventor of the mech, confirmed cheerfully. “And so are you, Nate.” He grinned, a familiar grin, good-natured and mischievous and so very like Bob. “But nothing lasts forever.”

  Afterword

  We hope you liked the first book in the Broken Arrow Mercenary Force series! I have to say that it was a blast seeing the world I envisioned brought to life with Rick’s expertise with writing military science fiction. I owe him a debt of gratitude that mere words cannot express.

  If you enjoyed Nate and his band of mercs, then please consider posting a review.

  We hope you’ll be back for more as the saga continues with Prisoners of War; coming soon…

  About Rick Partlow

  Rick Partlow is that rarest of species, a native Floridian. Born in Tampa, he attended Florida Southern College and graduated with a degree in History and a commission in the US Army as an Infantry officer.

  His lifelong love of science fiction began with Have Space Suit---Will Travel and the other Heinlein juveniles and traveled through Clifford Simak, Asimov, Clarke and on to William Gibson, Walter Jon Williams and Peter F Hamilton. And somewhere, submerged in the worlds of others, Rick began to create his own worlds.

  He has written 20 books in six different series, and his short stories have been included in nine different anthologies.

  He is working on a sixth, new series for Aethon books, a six-volume military SF saga about a mercenary unit called Wholesale Slaughter. The first three books should be out this summer.

  He currently lives in central Florida with his wife, two children and a willful mutt of a dog. Besides writing and reading science fiction and fantasy, he enjoys outdoor photography, hiking and camping. Learn more about Rick and his books by visiting his website at www.rickpartlow.com.

  Follow Rick on Amazon!

  More to enjoy from Rick Partlow

  The Duty, Honor, Planet trilogy

  Glory Boy

  The Birthright trilogy

  The Recon series

  Last Flight of the Acheron

  The Tales of the Acheron trilogy

  The Psi War trilogy

  Seeds of Gaia

  About Drew Avera

  Drew Avera is a Navy veteran, musician, and the bestselling author of the Dead Planet series and the Alorian Wars. He grew up in Mississippi with his nose in a stack of comic books when he wasn’t terrorizing the neighborhood practicing his trumpet or guitar. Eventually, he left small-town life and enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen. Since 2000, he has deployed on various aircraft carriers as an aviation electrician and has accumulated more than four years on the open seas.

  Drew began his author career in 2012 with his book Exodus, and is best known for writing space opera, dystopian, and cyberpunk, though he enjoys writing in other genres as well. He lives in Virginia with his wife, daughters and two cats which may be plotting against him when he isn’t looking. For more information about Drew and his books, visit his website at www.drewavera.com.

  Follow Drew on Amazon!

  More to enjoy from Drew Avera

  The Dead Planet Series

  The Syndicate Series

  The Alorian Wars

  Chancerian

  Skye Byrn